Counting
by Rayet
Summary: "You do count; you've always counted." Chronicling Molly's time as one of the few people who knew the truth about Sherlock Holmes' death. No S3 spoilers as yet.
1. Chapter 1: Funeral

Molly Hooper hated funerals. Her experience with the dead and her lack of experience with the living meant that the crying, grieving people in black made her more uncomfortable than any silent coffin ever could. But not everybody understood death as closely as she did, and often misinterpreted her lack of fear as a lack of respect. At her father's funeral, her stepmother had actually slapped her over some poorly-worded comfort Molly had offered. The widow had apologised immediately after, but Molly had taken it as a lesson that funerals were not her strength, and so she avoided them wherever possible.

But the funeral of Sherlock Holmes could not be avoided. Even if it were possible for her absence to go unnoticed at the tiny ceremony, she had made a promise to be there. Yet every moment the robed stranger droned on to the congregation was agony. His words were nice enough, but did little justice to the exceptional life they described. She found herself tuning them out altogether, and stealing furtive glances at the mourners around her.

She knew they wanted absolute secrecy about the time and location of the famous detective's burial; there were fears that the media and other busybodies would interfere. As it was, there were a handful of people Molly didn't recognise, keeping a respectful distance from the closer friends of the deceased. She supposed they were former clients or homeless confederates of his, come to pay their last respects to the man they all owed so much. The closer friends and loved ones Sherlock had managed to collect over time stood closer to the casket, and Molly's place was among them.

Poor Mrs Hudson was sobbing into her handkerchief so hard that she was in actual danger of drowning out the minister entirely. Greg Lestrade had apparently come straight from the station, as he was wearing his uniform with his hat tucked respectfully under one arm. His professional appearance only served to emphasise the lines of grief and regret on his honest face, ageing him in a way that his work never had. Mycroft Holmes was naturally the most enigmatic. Years of maintaining a 'small position in the British government' had given him the coldest and most stoic graveside manner Molly had ever witnessed. More than once she caught herself staring openly, willing the mask to slip and reveal his true emotions. It was his own little brother, after all, that they were there to eulogise. As far as she knew he had no other living relations and was now completely alone. Yet Mycroft Holmes' granite face showed no cracks, and Molly turned away unsatisfied.

Then there was John. Molly could hardly look at him without fighting back bitter tears of her own. His straight-backed, military countenance told the story of a man who had seen many horrors and attended many funerals before this one. His eyes were bright but dry, and his hands were as steady as ever by his sides. Everyone who knew the man knew how little his outward appearance reflected the agony within. He was like an abandoned house, continuing to stand long after his tenant had left his shelter. And this house was already beginning to crumble.

"Would anyone like say a few words before we lower the casket?" the minister, finally finished reciting his empty words, asked to the mourners. There was a tense moment of silence as he turned, out of deference, to the brother. Mycroft Holmes hesitated, staring hard at the coffin before giving a barely-perceptible shake of his head. His grey eyes travelled up to the army doctor's but stopped before they could meet, and for a moment Molly saw some of the guilt and pain he was usually so adept at hiding. It was clear what he was thinking: in the end, John Watson had been a far better brother to Sherlock Holmes.

John stepped forward, a hand grazing briefly over the top of the coffin before returning to his side. His mouth opened and even Mrs Hudson stilled in anticipation of his words, the only words that would have mattered to Sherlock on this day.

But the words wouldn't come. His mouth opened and closed several times, but there was no sound to accompany the action. The air filled with a terrible pity as they all watched the man struggle with himself. Molly tugged at the buttons on her sleeve, feeling like an intruder upon his heartbreak. It was clear to everyone present that, as much as he wanted to, John Watson couldn't bring himself to say goodbye.

Mercifully the minister intervened, motioning for the coffin to be lowered as he commenced the burial rights. Mrs Hudson gently pulled John back from the edge, murmuring something Molly thought sounded like, "He knows, dear."

Molly closed the door to her flat and slumped, eyes shut, against its cool frame. She hated funerals for a reason, and in some ways this one had been worse than her own father's. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pretend the whole day had never happened.

"So, how was it?"

Her eyes opened slowly and looked into the face of the man she had just help to bury. He was sitting in her favourite chair, watching her reverie with thinly-veiled impatience.

"It was… it was nice. A lovely service," she told him, too tired to make it sound convincing. She walked to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, kicking off her shoes as she did.

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. "Care to elaborate on 'nice'?"

"I don't know. You pretty much predicted everything that happened. Mrs Hudson cried the whole time, Lestrade showed up late and was the only policeman there, and your brother was just impossible to read but I assume he was very sad underneath it all. There were a couple of people I didn't really recognise; some of them looked like your homeless friends and one of them Mrs Hudson called 'Angelo.'" She spoke in a rush, eyes fixed on the two coffee cups in front of her. Her hand shook as she spooned two sugars into one of them and wondered how she would answer Sherlock's next inevitable question.

"And John?"

The kettle was boiling. Molly busied herself with it for several moments, conscious of Sherlock's eyes watching her every move. "John was... he was… sad," she finished lamely, placing the steaming beverage on the table beside him and taking the seat opposite. She ignored the look he gave her and took several quick sips of the scalding liquid.

"I really wish you'd be a little more forthcoming, Molly. What did he do? What did he say?" He asked, exasperated.

"Nothing."

"Come again?"

"He didn't say anything. He couldn't. He tried to, but it would have meant admitting to himself that you're dead, and he just can't yet. So he didn't speak at your funeral at all. Nobody did except the minister." Molly wished, not for the first time in her life, that she were better at talking to people. She hadn't wanted to worry Sherlock over how poorly John seemed to be coping with this whole terrible business, but it was clear from the lengthening silence that she had failed. "I'm sorry," she whispered to her coffee cup, blinking back the tears she hadn't quite been able to shed by his empty grave.

"No, it's my fault."

His voice was so tired. It had only been a few days since he'd stood on the roof of St Bart's; only a few days since he had been to Baker Street, or talked to John. They both knew that there were many more days to come. It would be difficult, but Sherlock had assured Molly that for now at least, it was necessary.

"John's strong," she reminded him. "He's a soldier. He _will_ heal, just not today. When he's able to say all the things he wanted to, you'll know he's strong enough to see this through."

Sherlock's pale, perceptive eyes regarded her for a moment, considering her words. That unreadable gaze always made Molly feel so exposed, but for once she held it. It was Sherlock who looked away first, picking up his cooling coffee before answering her with his usual equanimity.

"I know."


	2. Chapter 2: Cold

Does Mrs Hudson still have my lab equipment?

SH

No, I offered to donate it to the hospital for her. It's all at my place.

Even better. Expect me soon.

SH

You're coming back? Why? How long?

Soon. SH

"Don't worry, I wasn't followed."

"You look…"

The man Molly Hooper once knew glanced down at himself questioningly. "What?"

"Nothing," she blushed, standing aside to let him across the threshold.

"I know it's not the best I've looked, but it certainly isn't the worst."

Molly couldn't help but agree. She had seen him covered in blood on her mortuary slab after all. But it was still a shock to see such a distinguished man look so dishevelled. His jeans were faded and the knees were torn right out of the left leg. His signature coat had been swapped for a threadbare hoodie that must have done little against the winter chill, for he shivered even as he stood by her small living-room heater. His eyes looked even paler than usual when contrasted with the deep shadows beneath them, and his flushed complexion.

"Where have you been?" she asked him, closing the door and locking it. "It's been weeks since you first left."

"Everywhere," he replied distractedly, glancing around the room, "All over. Came back to London last Thursday, been down in the East End with a couple of Sumatran couriers since then. Where did you say my equipment was?"

"I keep it in boxes at the bottom of my wardrobe, but why do you n-" he had already slipped into her bedroom, ignoring Molly's half-hearted protests.

Within seconds he had returned with a cardboard box labelled "slides etc." and sat it down on her cluttered desk.

"Do you mind if I set up my microscope here?" he asked even as he unpacked it.

Molly shook her head. "Of course not, but can I ask what you're doing with it?"

"Checking to see what the damage is."

"Damage?"

"I've contracted a very rare, very deadly disease, and I want to see what stage of incubation it's in." He removed a blank slide from its packaging. "I'll need a needle."

"Wait, you think you've gotten a disease somewhere?"

"Yes, obviously," he had adopted that haughty, impatient tone Molly associated with his obligation to explain things to 'lesser' minds.

"Can I help?"

"Did you not just hear me ask for a needle? I need it to prick my finger with, if that wasn't clear."

"Right, but what makes you think you've got a deadly disease?" she asked, "What symptoms have you got? Maybe it's something I've seen before?"

Sherlock scoffed, sitting back in his chair to face her. "Molly, it's a very rare Sumatran disease called Tapanuli Fever. Symptoms include swollen glands, muscle ache, chills and a persistent dry cough; all of which I have. Later stages involve partial blindness, renal failure and death; all of which I have to look forward to."

His condescending expression grew alarmed as Molly leaned in and placed the back of her hand on his forehead. "What are you doing?" he asked her, shifting uncomfortably under her touch.

"Checking your temperature," she explained, "obviously. Now are you sure this is Whatever Fever? I've never heard of it before."

"Tapanuli Fever, and you're lucky it's not very contagious via touch. There have been only a handful of recorded cases in the United Kingdom, so it's hardly something you'd see on your exam table at work, now is it?" He raised his eyebrows, challenging her to disagree.

"You're right," she acceded, "I've never examined a body with the disease you've got. Mainly," she added with a softly teasing smile, "because people generally don't die of the flu."

"It's not the flu!"

"Yes it is, Sherlock. I've got three nephews; I've seen it enough times to know."

"I've _had _the flu before, and it felt nothing like this," Sherlock argued, "this is something far worse."

Molly shrugged, fetching her first aid kit from the kitchen. "Okay then, it's a rare tropical disease. But until you start going partially blind, I recommend bed rest and plenty of fluids." It was strangely endearing to see Sherlock like this; petulant and vulnerable, like any child with a winter flu.

"Molly," Sherlock began in a no-nonsense tone of voice, "I don't _get _common illnesses. I haven't since I was a child. If something's making me this sick now, then it's something serious."

"Uh-huh," she replied absentmindedly, rummaging for a thermometer. Ever since his 'fall' from the roof of St Bart's, she had seen many different sides to Sherlock Holmes; and not all of them were as intimidating as his cool façade. Hence, where the old Molly might have stuttered and submitted to the man's various commands, the new Molly had fewer reservations. And if today he had decided to act like a child, then that was exactly how he would be treated.

"Stick this under your arm," she instructed, handing him the electric thermometer. He stared at her like she had just handed him a loaded gun.

"Molly," he began, before submitting to a sneezing fit that sent the thermometer flying and Molly scrambling for tissues. He waved the box away, eyes streaming and nose red.

"I haben't gob de fwu!" he argued through a hopelessly blocked sinus.

"Sherlock, I know being sick isn't any fun, but at least the flu isn't as serious as your Tapanuli Fever. It's perfectly manageable, if you just rest a little and keep your fluids up," she silently thanked her limitless patience; it was the only thing that could outlast the man's stubbornness.

"You aren't my doctor!"

The words hung in the air long after Sherlock uttered them. They were tainted with a sadness that neither one could ignore. After all, Molly Hooper didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to read the subtext there. Slowly, like he was a wild animal she didn't want to scare, she knelt down beside him.

"Do you want me to _get_ your doctor?"

She knew his pride would rebel against her pity, but perhaps this once he would let himself be weak. Perhaps this would be the time he said yes.

"Perhaps it is just the flu after all."

And the moment was gone. Molly nodded, getting up to make some lemon tea while Sherlock packed away his microscope. The diagnosis had been accepted; and while that didn't make the symptoms go away, it would help speed up his recovery. The pathologist put new sheets on her own bed and instructed Sherlock to get some rest. For once he didn't argue, and Molly was glad. She knew his attitude was bound to worsen as his illness did, and that she had some very trying weeks ahead of her. But for now there was silence from the makeshift sickroom, only occasionally broken by a soft noise that may have been either a cough or a sob.


End file.
